Tweaking
by razor840
Summary: I think the clichéd version of how it happened probably included me speeding down the road to my apartment, eyes wet with tears." How did it really happen? Cameron-gen. Spoilers for Hunting.
1. Chapter 1

I think the clichéd version of how it happened probably included me speeding down the road to my apartment, eyes wet with tears. In reality, by the time I got home, I was itchy and nervous. My mouth was watering and I knew what was going to happen, or at least I thought I did. It took me back to college, driving around with an eighth of weed in my purse. There was a familiar feeling of paranoia, one of the things I definitely didn't miss about doing drugs. These crazy scenarios kept running through my head: being caught with drugs, losing my license, going to jail. I stopped at every yellow light, stayed five miles below the speed limit, and signaled at every turn. I had the meth in a baggie, hidden beneath the spare tire in the trunk. A police car passed me on the road right by the hospital and my whole body tensed up. I tried to look casual, to drive casually, I had this horrible ache in my neck and shoulders.

I drove by a head shop pretty much every day on my way to work. At least I hoped it was a head shop. It could have been a record store or a coffee shop. It had all the ambience of a head shop: hippy sounding name, guy outside playing the guitar, ATM right outside. I walked in and was immediately assaulted by that burnt vegetation and vanilla smell, it was almost putrid, of incense. Normally I like the smell but when there are so many different types together, it turns my stomach. It was even worse on that particular day, because I was starting to feel the effects of the antiviral medications. There were compact disks in cardboard boxes, beer in the coolers, the florescent lighting made everything look dingy and grayish. A younger looking guy with a full, messy, ginger colored beard was leaning on a glass counter. He almost looked asleep. There was a purple piece of poster board hanging in front of the counter, it read: 'Discount Cigarette Depot, Buy One Get One Free, _Pall Malls_.'

I could see hookahs and bongs behind the counter, so I hoped I was in the right place. I needed a screen. I had two boxes in my closet, both of them were taped shut. One box had wedding photos and various scraps from my marriage and the other had things left over from college. Inside the latter was a black box from Ikea the held a glass pipe, scraped clean of resin. All I needed was a screen. Mike, he was wearing a name tag, seemed slightly shocked and annoyed to have to wait on a customer.

"Do you have screens here? I'm looking for, you know, the screens you put in the bottom of a pipe," I was bleeding nervousness, my voice sounded crackly and unnatural.

"Uh, yeah, one is seventy five cents and a package is two fifty. I have three sizes, about how big? A pipe would probably be either a small or a medium," he pulled a couple screens out of box on the shelf behind him.

I bought one medium screen. It would have been more economical to buy a whole package, but this was going to be a one time thing, and I didn't want to invite a second time by having extra paraphernalia at hand.

"I guess I'll just get one of those cases of _Rolling Rock _too, and a pack of _Basic Light One Hundreds_," his eyes were tinged pink and he was moving at a glacial pace but eventually I got my stuff and got out of there.

I was practically running back to my car. I just wanted to get home and get away from people. Cigarettes were still about two dollars, the last time I bought a pack and I was shocked at the five dollar price tag. Everything was more expensive on the East Coast. I had been healthy, good, and pure for years.

It was dark and I could hear the buzz of the street lights and the hiss of a neon sign beside the head shop, it advertised a nail/tanning salon. I breathed in the unnaturally crisp air, I felt oddly alive and I was worried that in a few weeks, I might not ever feel that way again. I didn't believe Kalvin, he wasn't why I was doing this. Maybe he was, maybe he was just an excuse, it occurred to me that sometimes I used people in the most insidious ways. Maybe that was why I was always alone. I cocked my head to the side as I made my way toward my car, I always remembered the stories about rapists hiding underneath your car and pulling you down underneath as you tried to unlock your doors. I had a little can of pepper spray on my key chain. Holding the case of beer and the paper bag in one hand, I felt off balance.

My serpentine belt was loose and I jumped when the car whined to life. If I could find my ratchet and socket set, I could probably fix it myself. I found the perfect parking space, only a couple feet from the door of my building but I would have had to parallel park. I nixed that idea and parked one street up. I felt tired but on edge when I finally made it to the entrance of my building, the little baggie of meth was tucked away in my coat pocket.

A streetlight had burned out in front of my apartment building and the path was shrouded in an inky, murky darkness. The insistent hum of the cicadas in the bushes seemed almost deafening, for a moment I thought my ears were ringing. It was the only sound I could make out. My feet felt waterlogged with sweat and I wished I hadn't put my pantyhose back on when I changed out of my scrubs. I could feel little beads of sweat, itchy on my forehead, and I could swipe at them because my hands were full. I grasped my can of pepper spray and made my way forward, into my building.

I fumbled with the locks on my door. I had an extra deadbolt installed. When I was finally in my apartment, safe and away from everything and everyone, I almost cried tears of relief. Stepping out of my heels almost felt orgasmic. I wished I had someone to rub my feet, I wished I wasn't so short. I had to wear heels or risk looking like a twelve year old but sometimes I would get these intense cramping pains in my toes. Other times, every step I took would feel like I was driving a tack into my heel. I don't think House would care if I came to work in tennis shoes and jeans, but I don't have his reputation and I would undoubtedly lose credibility with patients and my colleagues.

I put the beer in the refrigerator, normally I take the bottles out but this time I just threw the whole box in. I didn't use the air conditioner, so the air seemed stale and humid even with two plug in air fresheners running. Normally I would take a long shower or bath and freshen up but that night, all I could think about was wiping that day from my mind, all I could think about was that I had opportunity to not be myself for awhile. I stripped off my work clothes and threw them in the hamper. They smelled like stale sweat. My underarms felt slick and slippery even after I had reapplied deodorant/antiperspirant at the hospital. I felt like I was melting. It was actually fortuitous that I had washed all of my makeup off earlier in the day, it definitely wouldn't have survived this heat. I realized I was almost gasping for air and my hands were shaking. I hated that this was affecting me. I hated being this weak. Chase was right. My chances of having contracted HIV were next to nothing. There was still chance however, and my mind was concocting the worst, most vividly horrible scenario imaginable. I needed to take a shower, just a short one.

I was normally very meticulous in the shower, I used moisturizers and scrubbed under my nails with a shop brush. On this particular night, I could hardly bring myself to move and I just let the warm water beat down on my shoulders. My non-slip bathmat felt rough and itchy on my bare feet. There was a bit of soap scum on the glass enclosure and I made mental note to clean my bathroom over the weekend.

My apartment was neat and clean for the most part, but you always miss things. I noticed the soap scum, there were some small grease stains on my range top (I had no idea what they were from, I couldn't even remember the last thing I had actually cooked,) and there was a light coat of dust on the moldings in my living room. I had a loose belt in my car, there were several cleaning jobs that needed to be done in my apartment, and I knew that there was nothing in the refrigerator save for yogurt, a big bag of oranges, and a case of beer.

I dried off and brushed my teeth. I broke down and turned on the air conditioning before going into my closet and pulling out the box I needed. I had everything fairly well organized, so I found the pipe rather quickly. I checked my filing cabinet, placed my pocket book in my safe, and generally made sure everything was neat and organized while I was still lucid. My day planner showed that I had no pressing appointments for a couple of days, I added in the date of the looming aids test and placed my anti-viral medications in the medicine cabinet. I would count them out into a plastic daily pill dispenser later, I couldn't bring myself to even think about it at that particular time. Finally, I set down on the couch with an old library card, one of my Grandmother's old plastic placemats (It was of those Thanksgiving/Christmas ones, where you could flip it over depending on the Holiday,) my pipe, my newly acquired screen, my cigarettes, and Kalvin's meth.


	2. Chapter 2

All love is conditional in some way. We love people because they give us what we need, even if they don't realize it. Unfortunately, the only kind of love that is even partially unconditional is the unrequited kind. Why was I thinking about this? My teeth felt like they were disintegrating in my mouth.

I brought the pipe to my lips and held the flame to the bowl. For some reason, the sizzling sound was deafening. When I could taste the acrid smoke on my tongue, I took a deeper breathe and filled my lungs. The phlegmy coughing came almost immediately. I dropped the pipe onto my coffee table, gasping, desperately trying to catch my breath. The euphoria was so sudden that it scared me. I took another hit.

It seemed like I had been staring at the ceiling for hours but when I checked my cell phone, I realized that I had only been home for about twenty minutes. It was frightening and exhilarating, I was seeing everything so clearly but I knew I really wasn't. I took another hit. As I pulled air through the pipe, it made a slight whistling sound as more of the powder caught and miniscule plumes of smoke rose up over the bowl. I quickly capped it with my lighter, burning my thumb in the process, and took another deep breath. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, it felt like breathing in razor blades and it was all I could do not to double over, coughing and spitting.

I hadn't been up for hours, I wasn't tired at all, I was powerful, I was grinding my teeth. I took another hit. I started thinking of all the things I could do. I was working on an article. I could go over the surgery notes again. Everything felt so clear right now, there had to be something prescient that I missed, something right there that I just couldn't see before. Working with House, this happened all of the time. Half of my job was being wrong. I got paid to be wrong. I didn't want to think about House. Thinking about House would inevitably lead to me thinking about failure, about being unhappy. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind, tried to smile.

I went to take another hit and the pipe made an almost melodious, whistling sound as I sucked in air, twisting the lighter around and trying to ignite what was left of the powder. It was almost beat, as we said in college. I was able to hold in the smoke longer that time. I saw starry flashes of light, pinpricks, illusions, before finally blowing out the smoke. It wasn't crystal, smoking it was a waste. I needed a straw, I needed to smoke a cigarette to stop grinding my teeth.

My mind was in control of my body but it almost seemed like it was a different part of my mind, like some forgotten, evil part of me had taken over. Why wasn't this person in charge more often? I was so much happier and all of my worries were dulled. They were still there but even the fear of what was to come seemed superfluous, instead destructive and frightening to a level that was almost debilitating. It was like a greater intelligence had subsumed the husk of Allison Cameron. I could feel the exhaustion, I could feel the nausea, I could feel the ache in my thigh muscles, but that didn't stop me from standing up and lurching over to my stereo. You know you're high when you start thinking in the third person.

I wanted to listen to a dance mix. I wanted to pretend like I never went to medical school, like I spent my college career in cavernous, smoke filled clubs and barely got out with a BA in marketing. I wanted to feel like I had never been married, had never been rejected, had never felt sad. I could almost feel the music, it felt warm, and I felt alive listening to it. I was engaged on a different level. Nothing was grey, mechanical, or utilitarian.

I packed my cigarettes. I always loved that part, tapping them on the heel of your hand and ripping off the cellophane. I slid the very middle one out of the package and flipped the two directly beside it over. One of my boyfriends had done that in high school. One was for good luck and one was for a good fuck. Those were the last two you smoked out of the pack. I always chewed on the filters. My lunges felt like they were burning but I didn't cough, I could taste the tobacco and it was a taste you really couldn't get any other way. In that minute, I could understand addiction and I could almost just accept it. If I tested positive, I would kill myself with an overdose. If I got knocked down this time, I wouldn't be getting back up.

I was getting ashes all over the floor. A few hours before I was performing a difficult medical procedure and now the prospect of finding something in my apartment to flick cigarette ash into was a bridge too far. I could hear myself breathing, wheezing. I like smoking. Well, as a doctor I hate smoking and I know that the calming feeling is purely chemical. In fact, I know more about the dangers of smoking than most people. It still worked, it gave me something to do with my hands. I almost wished that I wouldn't go back to caring once I was lucid again. Everything seemed so freeing.

I still lived like a college student. I took a cheap Walmart bowl out of my cabinet. Everything was lined up with a Prussian level of organization, it made me sick. A small amount of light was trickling into the kitchen around the drawn blinds, my kitchen floor seemed to almost gleam in the moonlight. I had cleaned a few days ago, after work. I just couldn't let it go. I suddenly got scared. This was going to wear off and I was still going to be the same person, with the same problems. Why did I smoke meth?

I rummaged around under my sink. I saw my orange peel, organic wood cleaner immediately but I wanted to make the cabinet messy. Who ever looked down there? What was the point of keeping everything so clean? I just had to take care of the moldings. I grabbed a rag and started to dust. It was a very powerful feeling, spraying the cleaner and shining up the wood. My knees ached, my back hurt from bending over. When I finished the living room, I realized that I was once again soaked with sweat. I was laughing, giggling, I couldn't stop myself. I looked at the clock and it had been an hour since I first smoked. I thought it had been days.

Fresh, clean white walls, shampooed carpets, a cherry colored bookshelf with pictures and some of my Grandmother's Victorian knick knacks on it, and none of it really mattered. No one was here to share it with me. No one wanted to look at my little jeweled boxes, the mid-19th Century print of a watercolor, of the little town I grew up in, or my Ikea picture frames. I wanted sex. My hand felt cold and wet and I started worrying about heart failure until I realized I was holding a beer. I called Chase, because I thought he was the most likely to pick up and I figured that he would say yes. I was using him. I was a bad person.

I was rough with him. I wanted him to be rough with me too but he wasn't. It almost seemed like he gave in, like he didn't really want me. I hadn't planned on things happening the way they did. It was like everything was screaming sex. I wanted to feel his chest, I wanted to run my nails down his stomach, I wanted to run my tongue over and bite at the nape of his neck, and he let me. I had never felt like I needed sex before.

He stayed for a little while after we were done. He rolled over and let me straddle his hips. He let me touch him, play with his hair. Afterwards, when he was dressed and ready to leave, he was very businesslike. He asked me how much I took and checked my pupils, my pulse. I think he felt guilty. I could feel a black cloud settling over me, I wasn't happy anymore.


End file.
